"Short 'n Sweet"

Maps stated it'd take this Irish-Bug Badger roughly thirty-nine hours to roll across country from California to New York City, New York. Were it not for the four-

'Or was it five?'

-five trusting souls dropping trou and allowing me to borrow their vehicles I'd not be as close as I am now to my first match in four long years. I can feel the anticipation already; a stirring in the blood, a tremor in the heart that hasn't truly beaten for what seems an eternity, and even, yes, arousal at the thought of hurting another human being. I'm almost salivating, especially given my opponent.

"Benito Angelo."

Italian. Fucking Italians. I fucking hate Italians as every good Irishman should. Truth be told, there ain't much every good Irishman should _like_ but on the subject of ire from Eire, wops and micks mix like blacks and spics. You'd never see it these days what with the pussy air of conformist-pseudo-hippy-love-for-everyone that's been choking this shithole country for the last 8 years. Not a problem for the XWF, a single beacon of freedom's light piercing high into the sky, drawing this predator like a moth to the flame. And this predator will feed, savagely, Saturday night. My prey, the Italian.

"I find it difficult-" I catch myself.

'It's ok to talk to yourself, we're shooting a promo you fool.'

Quite right.

'So please, continue.'

"I find it difficult to take you too terribly seriously Benito. While you do hold one third of the Trio Titles and are a member of a seemingly illustrious stable you also claim to be a mafia boss. This is where the Irishman in me will now run his mouth south of ill-advised and say fuck the mafia. Whether it's true or not. Fuck. The. Mafia."

'Of course it ain't true. He ain't in the mafia!'

"No shit he ain't in the mafia and it follows that he sure as shit ain't no fucking Don of New York either. However, a gentleman allows a woman to maintain her fiction so, please, Benito, do me a favor and follow through with the general ultimatum you've plastered yourself with: that good ol' putting a hit out on those in your way threat. I expect a garrote around my throat before I've stepped foot in that ring because that is the ONE thing that may save you from what I've in store."

'How does he match up?'

"You stand two inches taller but you weigh in twenty-four pounds lighter. You're in big fucking trouble and that's putting it mildly. My whole life, in and out of the ring, I've had no choice but to square off against giants and it's never an easy task. For those unfortunate enough to find themselves around _my_ size however, with few exceptions, the deck is generously stacked in my favor. And seeing as how you've yet to scout me, failed to train for me, refused to utter even a single fucking syllable which even for an Italian should be no issue...seeing as how you aren't taking ME seriously...I'm going to blow you apart like I'm Danny Greene and you're any number of his Cleveland Mob victims.

'No respect. Get angry.'

"Zero respect. For the title you hold, for the team you seem to be the weakest link of, for the federation in which you fight and the business in which you currently compete you have ZERO respect. Can't be bothered to participate while your greasy ass continues to cash fuckin' checks? How fucking dare you? I don't have two motherFUCKING pennies to rub together and your ass is filthy fucking rich! You have the balls to squander what you've been given, you allow it to rust and rot, while a man like me who'd KILL for a fuckin' nickel has to abandon his own dignity just to be able to snatch a half-dozen write-off AMPM rib sandwiches from the goddamn garbage so I don't fucking STARVE!? I'll FUCKING KILL YOU FOR THAT YOU MOTHERFUCKER!! I'll FUCKING KILL YOU!!"

'Easy..not that angry.'

"FUCK EASY! FUCK FUCKING EASY!! I HAD TO WATCH MY WIFE AND MY FUCKING 4 YEAR OLD DAUGHTER GO HUNGRY BECAUSE OF GREEDY, LAZY, COCKSUCKERS LIKE HIM AND I WILL NOT TAKE IT FUCKING EASY UNTIL I'VE CHEWED THROUGH THAT GREASEBALL'S THICK FUCKING NECK WITH MY FUCKING TEETH AND BATHED IN THE ARTERIAL FUCKING SPRAY!! I FUCKING-"

Jesus Christ...I can't catch my breath...I'm coughing uncontrollably from that esophagus-rending-rant, sweat pouring down my face, stinging my eyes. Now it's hard to see the road and I'm swerving amidst angry honks and road rage retorts.

'Pull it back...pull it back...'

My coughing fits gradually cease and I wipe my face.

'You're not far now.'

As it stands I'm six hours out on the I-376 somewhere in Pennsylvania. Perhaps Pittsburgh, birthplace of the zombie.

'Be like the zombie. This ain't shit. Calm down and regain your singular focus. If you crash you'll have no flesh to feast upon tomorrow night. Sew it up and be on your way, man.'

"Benito, you don't know me. You don't know me but you're going to pay for what you've done to me and mine. You're going to pay and if I can help it the tab will be terminal. 'The mafia says hello' does it? Well I'm Jim fucking Caedus and I say arrivafuckin'derci."
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